


it's getting hot in here

by swallowedsong (bookstvnerdlove)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/swallowedsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma’s a boxer and Killian’s a yoga instructor for the class that David (her trainer) makes her take so she can chill between matches. She’s a little tightly wound, you see, and what better way to relax than yoga right? </p>
<p>Except, she wasn’t quite expecting her instructor to be so. damn. hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s that stretch of skin that kills her every damn time. The sliver that shows above the heather grey of his drawstring pants and below the soft white cotton of his tee-shirt. She’s seen a glimpse of ink there, too. Just flashes of dark against pale skin when his abdomen ripples as he takes his body through the motions from warrior two to downward dog. 

She knows that she shouldn’t objectify him like this, lord only knows what he’d think if he knew _exactly_  what was on her mind. In the middle of yoga class. Sandwiched between the expert woman who clearly came to the intro class to also ogle the instructor and the newbie guy who was clearly trying to impress the woman on the other side of him. She shouldn’t be practically drooling, wondering how far up that tattoo went. 

Or how far down. 

Nope. She wasn’t thinking about that at all, as she curled her body into itself, stretching into the cool-down phase of class. She was trying hard not to imagine what would happen in this room if they were alone, as the lights dimmed and his voice turned softer, infinitely more soothing. She was trying not to imagine what he would say as she pulled the soft material over his head and put her hands on his skin, tracing the ink on his forearm, his biceps, his hip bone. She loves every inch of what she’s seen and her imagination appears to have no trouble filling in the rest. Except for the one that fascinates her so much.

Her mind is hazy with latent desire as she fumbles her way through the remaining stretches and finally,  _finally_ , is allowed to collapse on her mat, to succumb to the darkened room and the rapid pace of her heart. To  _rest._

.

At first she’d scoffed at David, when he suggested this was just what she needed to unwind between matches. She’s a fierce competitor in the ring and he appreciates that about her. But she also knows he worries. Product of all the years they’ve spent together, first training side-by-side and then him training her when he retired from fighting. She didn’t blame him, not when he had Mary Margaret and their kiddo to go home to at night, not when the instability of the ring became too much for too many people regardless of their home lives. 

But, God, she’d given him grief and now she’ll never tell him but it’s the best thing to happen to her. Oh, not in the way he’d expected it. She doesn’t end her sessions at the studio relaxed and fluid, not like the other patrons who roll their mats and gather their things, chattering as they leave. No, she leaves so tightly wound she’s pretty sure David would worry. But what she’s gained? 

.

She licks her lips as her breathing calms and she thinks about it, her newest favorite focal point. The one that keeps her mind free and ready during bouts in the ring and the one that makes her agitated and edgy outside of it. 

That sliver of skin, that bit of ink. 

She wants to taste it. She wants him standing against the wall of the studio, his eyes on her. She wants his fingers dragging along her scalp as she tugs at the string to his pants, as they slide off his body and pool at his feet. The material is soft and light, airy as he moves through the positions in class and she wants to feel it beneath her knees as she slides down to taste his skin. She wants to trace the length of his tattoo with her lips, her tongue. She wants to taste the salty stretch of skin as his eyes darken. 

Maybe she’d ask him what it means, but maybe that would be too much for her, for him. Maybe, instead, she would ask him what it felt like to get inked in such a sensitive spot.  _Did it hurt_ , she might ask. _Did he like it_? 

She wants to look up at him and see him, head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, and she wants to order him to open them. To watch her make him fall apart. And maybe he’d like that, her voice firm and yet also soft. Maybe she’d tease him more, tell him what she plans to do, even before she does it, her hands stroking lightly. More teasing until he’s reckless in his movements, straining towards her body. 

She wants him in her mouth, tongue curling around the velvety hardness of him, tasting how much he wants her with the flick of her tongue. She wants that tightness in her chest as he pulls her hair harder, as he begins to thrust. She wants that feeling of him sliding between her lips and the way his breath would hitch in return. 

She wants…

Well, she wants to make it out of this building with her dignity and she can hear the shifting of bodies and the way his voice raises to signify the end of the class. She remains on the floor for a moment and the woman next to her leans over to ask if she’s okay. Emma nods, but she knows she’s not okay. She needs to punch a bag. She needs to get laid. 

She needs  _something._

She settles for walking the ten short blocks to her apartment and showering off the class. She settles for sliding her hands along her own body, slick with soap as she follows the curve of her breasts and the dip of her waist. She settles for the press of her fingers along her own core, the evidence of just how far gone she is. She settles for her fingers sliding against her own skin, sensitive and begging for touch, her nerve endings on edge and everything so swollen and achy and wanting. 

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly she comes, how all it takes is a light, deft touch and small circle. 

.

The next time she goes to class she swears that he knows something because he grins at her, which he’s never done before.  _But how could he know?_  She reasons with herself as she takes her usual position in the middle of the room. By the end of class, though, she’s sure. Sure from the way his hands lingered on her hips when fixing her pose and the way that his eyes caught hers approximately five times more often than they usually do. 

Not that she’s counting. 

But what really clinches it is the way he winks at her when she leaves (which he’s never done before) and murmurs that he’s looking forward to seeing her in class next week. And all of her self-possession flies out the door as a blush creeps across her skin. 

(She leaves without saying goodbye. But she reasons with herself that there’s always next week.)


	2. Chapter 2

“Now,” he says, voice gentle and soothing. “What I want you to do is stretch your neck. Extend as far as you can go.” 

He places a hand on her hips and he shifts her alignment and she swears he’s close enough that she can feel his pulse against her back, his breath on her neck. He doesn’t linger long, but the way that this fingers slide off her body, she can feel it, the pleasure he gains from touching her, the way he doesn’t want to stop. 

She’s been back in class for three weeks since her little running away stint. Thanks to an earful from David over a sparring session, she showed up the following week, pulse (sort of) steady and ready to work. Steady that is until he decided to up his game; more passes to her side of the room, eyes on her form more than usual. It’s a game of slow seduction, the way his gaze focuses on her, different than the rest of the class. Less impersonal. 

Less professional. 

He’s moving on to the other side of the room when he continues his instructions, “That’s it. Stretch, elongate as far as you can go. I want you to imagine, if it pleases you, that your lover is here beside you. That they have leaned in to place a kiss on your neck.” 

He looks at her and arches a brow when he catches her looking right back at him.

Damn. Her torso should be twisted the other way. 

And also, _damn._  Now it’s all she can do to concentrate on this new pose, a little more advanced than this class is used to, but he’d begun with that announcement. That, since this group has remained relatively consistent for six weeks, he’s ready to push them farther, work them harder. 

And she swears, after he said harder, he looked right at her and licked his lips. 

_Bastard._

And now she’s imagining his hands on her hips, behind her, pressing her into the wall. They would travel up her body, once he’s pulled in close to her, once he’s aligned against her. They’d travel to her hair, to brush it aside as he presses his hips to her, as she feels him behind her, hot and hard. Oh yes, he’ll be naked, his erection rubbing against the satin of her panties. 

Nevermind that satin underwear is terribly impractical for yoga class. It’ll be smooth against her skin as she feels him crowding her body. His fingers will find her neck as one hand reaches the wall for leverage, forearms flexing. He’ll glide over her pulse point, pressing until she’s shaking, ready for the brush of lips that comes next. 

He’ll ask her what she was thinking about in class today, and she’ll whisper her reply. His fingers will respond, sliding down her belly, slipping underneath the cool satin until…

… _s_ _hit damn fuck._ This _has_  to stop, Emma, she tells herself. This _will_  stop.  

(The only way to make it stop, she decides later, is to take matters into her own hands. She marches up to him at the end of class and, reaching into her shoulder bag, she pulls out a flier for her next fight.

“Meet me after?” She asks, all innocent smiles when his brows lift in genuine surprise. She turns on her heels and doesn’t wait for a reply. 

There’s really no doubt that he’ll come.

And, if the fates allow,  _she will, too._ )

...

The gym is nicer than he expected, somewhere above ‘illegal boxing ring’ and somewhere below ‘professional’. But it’s clean and orderly. Well, as orderly as a gym can be when setting up for an night of fights. 

Killian hadn’t planned on showing so early. Something about not being too eager, not showing his hand. But then he remembered the gleam in her eyes when she handed over the flier, the pupils dilated just enough and the red flush in her cheeks that came from somewhere beyond the exertion during the session. 

In the face of such evidence, what could he really do?

So here he finds himself,ticket purchased legally at the door, and some cash under the table in favor of Emma. For all his yoga-induced calm these days, he still knows how to scan the room, how to find the exact right person who is there to play games. If anybody were to look too closely at his financials, they might question how he financed the small building that he now owns. But he finds most people don’t care much about a small yoga studio when there’s a boxing gym around the corner. 

He winds his way through the growing crowd and finds a perch at the end of the makeshift bar. Flirting casually with the bartender, he leans back against the wall, sips his whiskey, and waits. 

.

Three seconds into her fight, he’s transfixed. 

He’s always admired her body, sleek and toned. Those arms of hers graceful and yet unafraid to show exactly how tough she is. He’s somehow managed to keep his touch light and professional - only when given permission, only to make small corrections in form. 

But watching her now, the raw power, the force, the grace of it all. He itches to touch more deliberately. Reverently. And, damn him for a fool maybe, sexually. Definitely that last one. 

As she systematically reads and takes apart her opponent with a single-minded intensity, a shiver sparks in his body. Starting right at the nape of his neck, rocking down. Down, down, until the base of his spine is on fire. Until he’s standing at the edge of the crowd, back against the hard concrete wall. Until his dick hardens just enough that he shifts his legs to relieve the pressure. 

He wants that focus of her aimed at him. 

He wants her above him in bed, hips rocking him into oblivion. He wants her eyes focused on his every response. He wants her to take him, no shame or apologies needed. 

He catches the eye of the bartender for another round and she sends him a wink, as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

.

He finds her, after, using the directions that she’d written on the back of the flier. 

The locker room is small and empty but for her. Unwinding the wraps on her hands, hair matted with sweat in her ponytail, face red. Her body still glistens. The hard muscles of her stomach clenching with every breath. Things that shouldn’t add up to sex, but it’s the first thing he thinks of when he sees her. When their eyes meet as she lowers the bottle of Gatorade from her lips. When she swallows, the motion exaggerated in his mind, because all he can think about is dragging his teeth along that long column of neck. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” She asks him, voice thready as she’s still coming down from the high of the fight. 

He doesn’t have the words to reply, which is unlike him. Killian of the quips and banter and effortless flirting. 

He wants her too much. 

He nods as he takes a step closer to her. Wrinkling her nose, licking her lips nervously, she watches his slow approach and says nothing. Once he’s close to her, once he can see the flutter of her pulse on that long column of delicate skin, once he can feel the heat of her body filling the air between them, once she becomes aware that his eyes are fixated on her lips, that’s when she speaks. 

“I should shower.” 

His hips brush against hers, until she stumbles back into the lockers. The clanging noise all but a mere buzz in the back of his mind. 

“I don’t care,” he tells her, truthfully. “But I’ll wait as long as you need.” 

The sighing noise that escapes her lips encourages him, but he still waits to close the space between them further. He has to hear her say it. Out loud, no questions. 

His right hand finds her cheek, still warm, though cooling down. He traces her features, the arch of her eyebrow, the curve of her cheek, down until he reaches that rapid, fluttering, pulse in her neck, that only gets faster under his touch. 

The sigh turns into a moan and she closes the space between their lips. 

“I don’t care, either,” she says against his mouth. 

The words are barely said before he covers her fully, hot mouths sliding together, as if it were not their first kiss, as if they’ve been doing this forever. And maybe they have, maybe she’s thought of his mouth as much as he’s thought of hers. Or maybe it’s just because they fit. 

It turns into a match, another round in the ring, the way he backs her into the metal, the way her foot curls around his calf. The way her teeth pull at his lower lip, the way her tongue tangles with his. 

Pulling at the fabric of her top, she pushes his away and lifts her arms. Sliding the sweat-soaked material up her body, he groans at the way her nipples harden with the rush of air against them. Naked and pink, he discovers how she tastes as he sucks, of salt and warm skin. 

The sound of her whispering his name is his favorite moment. 

Shifting up, he finds hers lips, and it’s a hard mesh of mouth and teeth clanging as she rolls her hips, finding him hard and hot and ready for anything. He makes his way down again, teeth dragging just as he’d imagined, her skin sensitive to his touch, but her sounds encouraging more, _harder_. 

Cursing, _fuck, yes._ And, _fuck me._

As much as he wants that mouth of hers on him, it’s him who winds up on his knees, dick straining against his jeans, but lost in the taste of her skin. Nipping at her waist, dragging down her shorts. How wet she is against his tongue already. 

She comes with her fingers gripping his hair. 

.

Later, recovering, he leans his forehead against the cold her hands drift slowly down his back. Calming, comforting, keeping his skin buzzing as he’s not yet sated. 

“I really do need to shower,” she whispers in his ear. 

“I have cab fare,” is his muffled reply as his fingers tighten their grip in his hair and his mouth presses against her neck. 

Her answering laugh is a beautiful sound, even as she pushes him away to pull on the clothes in her locker, and she drags him by hand out the back door, away from the crowds. 


End file.
